


Interview | Date

by beyondcanon



Series: Interview [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fluff, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana asks Brittany on a date. No family, no coach - just them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interview | Date

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of [my prompt challenge](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge) on Tumblr. Some stories will be posted on AO3; this is one of them.
> 
> The Interview Series is designed to have standalone stories within the same verse. Each installment is complete in itself and requires no sequel. I'd suggest you subscribe to it if it strikes your fancy. ;)
> 
> I'd really start with the first part, if I were you.

It’s a little funny how Santana always calls and never texts.

Brittany answers right away, ignoring the fluttering in her chest. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Santana says, taking a deep breath. “Can we go on a date?”

Brittany doesn’t smile as much as beams, sliding down on her chair and hiding behind her computer screen. “Yes. It’s a free country.”

Santana laughs for a few seconds before stopping herself short. “Smartass.”

Brittany shrugs, even if Santana can’t see it. “Mom always told me I was a genius.”

“Come with me on a date. No family. No coach. Just you and me?” Santana asks, the confidence in her voice faltering a little. “Saturday?”

“Just you and me,” Brittany repeats, tongue darting out to moisten her upper lip in anticipation.

\--

What if after the date they get naked and sweaty? Do the rumpty-bumpty, the horizontal mambo, the home run? You know, do the nasty?

Santana’s a shark, a sexy fiery goddess, and Brittany is… not.

Should she wax, though? What is a Brazilian wax? Should she try it?

\--

It’s one of those times Brittany really hates cell phones.

She sees Santana’s name on the damn screen – and maybe the picture she surreptitiously took when the family was out rollerblading – and she listens to the ringtone, but trying to slide to the right to actually answer the call does nothing.

Her phone turns off of its own accord and she curses, throwing the damn thing on the passenger seat and making a sharp turn to the right.

She’s got some time to kill.

It’s 6pm and Santana’s probably home, right?

\--

Santana  _is_  home.

She’s wearing black leggings and an obviously old t-shirt, faded grey from too many washing cycles, with a Flashdance style neckline, broad and revealing, and her hair is up in a messy ponytail.

She leans on the doorframe, looking very cozy, very tired, and absolutely gorgeous.

“My phone isn’t working,” Brittany says, still standing outside, her hands behind her back, “and I was on my way home, so I thought I’d come over.”

A lazy smile sneaks itself onto Santana’s lips. “Hi.” She takes Brittany’s hand and pulls her closer for a slow kiss.

It’s a very good kiss.

“I can leave, too.” Brittany tries to sound nonchalant, her own heart racing. “If I’m interrupting something.”

Santana just takes her purse and leads the way inside.

\--

It’s the first time she enters Santana’s house as a – future girlfriend? Possible date material? Make-out buddy? – not a reporter.

Santana sets Brittany’s purse down on the dinner table and leans against it, facing Brittany. Brittany licks her lips. “So—why did you call?”

Santana grabs a white envelope on the table. “I got you this.” She offers it to Brittany; it’s the perfect excuse to take those few steps forward and be close to Santana again.

She opens it under Santana’s attentive gaze. They’re tickets. MMA tickets.

“Two for every one of my scheduled fights,” Santana says quietly. “I thought you and your Mohawk friend would like that. Best seats.”

She looks at Santana, heart aching in tenderness, Santana’s hesitant hand brushing against hers waiting for her reaction. Santana clears her throat, misreading her silence. “You don’t have to go if you’re not in the mood, though. You have other things, and it’s okay if you don’t even—“

“Stop.” She cups Santana’s face between her hands. “I love it.” She kisses Santana softly, once. “You’re cute.” She kisses her again. “You’re such a cute little panda.”

Santana grabs her shirt to make sure they’re as close as possible; she’s warm and breathy against Brittany. “I’m a fighter,” she says, kissing Brittany’s lower lip and nipping it. “I’m not cute.”

Brittany presses their hips together, moving her mouth to a tan neck. “Sure you are,” she says, the tip of her tongue swirling under Santana’s ear.

Santana clings to her a little harder, breath catching, and Brittany knows she’s won the argument.

\--

Santana’s not wearing a bra; Brittany groans.

It’s a gift from the Gods of Earth, she’s sure, because when her hands sneak under Santana’s shirt they meet nothing but skin, and Santana breathes out a “Britt” so sexy it should be illegal.

The fact that she’s supposed to be leaving now is pushed to the back of her mind, because Santana is sitting on the dinner table – she’s fondling Santana on a dinner table,  _God_  she’s gotten to second base in their first 15 minutes alone – and her legs are wrapping around Brittany, strong muscles keeping her in place.

Brittany nips at Santana’s pulse point as her hands cup those glorious breasts, thumbs working circles on tan skin.

“Britt,” Santana says again, back arching and mouth half open.

“I like it when you call me that,” Brittany answers, rolling Santana’s nipples between her fingers. Santana curses in Spanish, breath hot against Brittany’s lips as she pulls them for a demanding kiss.

Brittany’s work phone decides to ring and she decides she hates the thing.

She takes it from her pocket – Santana whines when her hands retreat – to turn off her “you’re late” alarm. “Dammit.”

Santana places feather light kisses on her jaw. “Everything alright?”

“I’ve got to go,” Brittany moans, her face in Santana’s hair as Santana scratches her lower back. “Work.” She mumbles, feeling Santana lick the shell of her ear. “Please.”

Santana nods, leaning away from Brittany; the look on her face alone is enough for Brittany to spontaneously combust.

“To be continued,” she says, pulling Brittany in for one last kiss.

\--

Damn you, baseball.

\--

She buys a new phone because she’s not taking any risks.

\--

Man, she loves pastrami. And mustard.

“Yes, every game,” she explains, taking a bite of her sandwich and speaking with her mouth full because Puck’s being 10x more disgusting than her. “And if she goes further into the competition, she’ll get those tickets for us too.”

“You have to marry her, man.” Puck eats his chicken wings, his fingers red with sauce, and he’s staring at the tickets like it’s Christmas. “It’s an order.”

She rolls her eyes, trying not to blush. “Your fetish for women fighters is going too far, Puck.”

“But she’s got to ask my permission first,” he continues, downing his Coke and ignoring everything she’s said. “And she better get some good shit to bribe me into giving you away.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s smiling.

He takes another bite, sauce on his chin. “Hey, you think we can get VIP?”

\--

She gets a Brazilian.

She almost dies in the process.

\--

It’s  _all_  dirty.

Her favorite clothes, dirty and smelling faintly of sweat and ketchup.

Why, for the love of God, hadn’t she done her laundry?

And why does she have a  _male_  best friend? That is no good for borrowing clothes or asking for fashion tips. Puck’s sense of fashion splits into two axes: comfortable-not comfortable and fuckable-not fuckable.

Damn him.

Shirts and skirts and pants pile up on her bed as she curses and tries to decide on something.

She checks the weather for the second time to check the temperature – which is just a variation of hot, because its a New Mexico summer – before she settles for shorts and a white peasant blouse, because Santana said  _no dressing up_  very categorically.

\--

She smoothes her blouse over with the palm of her hand once, then twice, as she steps out of her car.

Santana is standing on the porch and she’s all kinds of gorgeous.

“Hi,” Brittany says, swallowing dry.

Santana’s hair is falling over her shoulders, black and thick and lush, and her white shorts display a fair amount of toned, strong legs. But Brittany’s favorite is the shirt: oxford navy blue, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, fabric framing Santana’s body very loosely and enough buttons undone to display those glorious, glorious breasts.

The fact that Santana is still on the porch and Brittany is standing one step lower makes for the perfect angle of appreciation.

She’s still thinking about  _to be continued_.

Santana’s hand on her hair snaps her out of her daze. “ _Mi linda_ , you’re staring.” She looks very satisfied with herself, that evil one.

Brittany blushes furiously, eyes shooting up to meet Santana’s. Grabbing Santana’s shirt – so fresh, so soft – swiftly, she pulls them against each other. “You look really good.”

Santana hums in agreement, enveloping her arms around Brittany’s shoulders and nuzzling her neck. “You look better.”

They’re warm together, like the beginning of summer; Brittany’s palms on Santana’s lower back, under her shirt, make sure they remain pressed against each other.

Santana kisses her, grabbing her hair and taking control. She sucks Brittany’s lower lip, pulls it, and sucks it again; her tongue darts out to trace Brittany’s upper lip before entering Brittany’s mouth and exploring thoroughly.

Brittany sighs, head tilting a little more to the left to allow Santana to rub their tongues together, slick and wet and delicious, a little contented sigh escaping her lips.

Santana’s nails scratch the back of Brittany’s neck softly, up and down, and they kiss until they’re breathless and flushed.

\--

It’s a drive-in movie.

The  _Albuquerque 6_  famous drive-in, restored and rebuilt and pretty and it looks just like when Brittany was little and her mom drove her there and—gosh.

Brittany looks at Santana, and she looks at the six – six! – big screens, and then she looks at Santana again, and Santana’s just there, smiling smug and satisfied.

She kisses Santana, holding Santana’s face between her hands because she’s wonderful and unassuming and she’s invited Brittany into her life and her family like it’s no big deal, like she already trusts her, and Santana kisses back slow and gentle.

“Wow,” Santana says when they part.

Brittany kisses her again.

\--

The back of the truck becomes a mess of blankets and soft, colorful pillows. There’s a  _huge_  container with salty popcorn, and another with sweet popcorn, and there’s sparkling water and soda  _and_  iced tea.

“I don’t know your favorite drink,” Santana says over the buzz of cars parking and people chatting. She looks brilliant, and open, so Brittany kneels in front of her and touches her chin.

“Iced tea is perfect,” she says, kissing Santana’s mouth briefly before turning around and settling between Santana’s legs.

Maybe she shouldn’t hold back so much; she spins too many conversations around, not ready to shed light on herself.

Santana never pressures. She kisses the back of Brittany’s neck, one hand on Brittany’s hip warm and reassuring as the other reaches for the salty popcorn.

“You know, there are two types of people,” Brittany says, listening to Santana’s attentive  _hm_  behind her. “The kind that eats popcorn throughout the movie and the gluttons that finish it all during the trailers.”

Santana laughs and snorts and then coughs, her forehead against Brittany’s back as she catches her breath.

“Just saying,” Brittany bites back a smile, eyes flickering to the screen as the projection begins.

\--

She has  _fantasies_ , okay?

Maybe some of them involve the movies, and maybe the way Santana’s hand is resting on her stomach, under her shirt, isn’t helping  _at all_.

Her breath catches in her throat when Santana scratches lazily around her navel, their bodies tightly together.

Santana has to notice it, because she does it again, and then again. “San,” Brittany breathes out, but Santana’s lips are already wrapped around her earlobe.

“What?” Santana says sweetly, hand diving into Brittany’s hair to pull it aside and allow her to take a long lick, drawing on the curve of Brittany’s neck, and then those full wonderful lips are closing on her pulse point and sucking.

She bites back the groan, her mouth partially open and her head thrown back. “We shouldn’t—“ she begins, but she’s not trying very hard and Santana’s bite shoots straight between her legs.

“No one’s looking,” Santana answers, voice raspy and low in Brittany’s ear. Her hand rises further, reaching Brittany’s breast to cup it over fabric. “It’s a good movie,” she hums, her free hand scratching Brittany’s thigh from her knees to the edge of her shorts.

Brittany turns her head to kiss Santana, suck her lower lip and then kiss her again, a little desperate, small whimpers at the back of her throat when Santana takes over, demanding.

“You’re the one who left me hanging,” Santana whispers, working a sore bruise on Brittany’s pulse point with her teeth and her lips and the flat of her tongue. “Didn’t you?” She has both hands on Brittany’s breasts now, massaging and teasing and not giving Brittany what she needs yet.

“I’m sorry,” Brittany hisses, arching her back. “Even though I didn’t— All I wanted—”

“What did you want, Britt?” Santana’s voice is almost a moan, a low grumble that practically  _makes_  Brittany spread her legs further, inviting.

She doesn’t even care anymore if they’re seen or not, if there’s an action scene playing on the screens, if she’s being quiet or not – she lets out a strangled moan, hand reaching for Santana’s to get her where she needs it.

“I think now we’re even,” Santana says, resting back against the truck, hands vanishing from Brittany’s body.

Brittany turns around  _indignant_ , her face flushed, and she catches the smirk in Santana’s lips. “You didn’t.”

Santana steals a chaste kiss. “Just giving you a preview,  _linda_.” Her knuckles graze the front of Brittany’s shorts. “To be continued in private.”

Sweet Mary, mother of God.


End file.
